At the Stroke of Midnight

The world is waiting, watching the minutes slip by as we revolve into another new year. I am straining to fill these minutes with words but they do not come. So I sit here peacefully, contemplating the future, not so far away now. 

How different this New Year's Eve is to the last. I don't recall anything about it beyond the heady sense of anticipation that hung in the air and the fireworks launched from the nearby quay at midnight. We have hopes and dreams for the coming year also, but not the expectation of uprooting our lives again. 

Now we are here. And here we will be at the stroke of midnight. Waiting to see what the new year will bring. But always grateful for all that 2017 has meant to us and those we hold dear.

Light and Wonder

Christmas here is blustery and wet, our walls still await replastering and the clutter of family life tends to spill over. But nothing can spoil the anticipation and excitement that fill the air like magic.

We welcome again the saviour of the world, retelling the story of the first Christmas, and try to pass on the good news.

Christmas brings hope and joy, light and wonder into our homes and hearts. This, our first Christmas in Scotland and the first to ourselves, will be one to remember.

A Blogger's Nostalgia

You should know by now that this is the season that holds the most nostalgia for me. This is the time that I find myself thinking of the friends long absent, but not yet forgotten. And the people standing on the edge of my memory. One day they will slip beyond, but for now they hold on, and I find myself thinking of them from time to time. 

I can't help but remember fondly the early years of blogging. How different it was back then. There were so many bloggers that captivated me with their words, and although I never had many readers, there was a real community spirit to be found amongst those who came my way. I found myself involved with a travelling notebook, and even attended a virtual ball. I can't tell you how much those times meant to me.

Nowadays, blogs seem to be more focused on commercialisation. I appreciate the need to monetise when the opportunity is available, but product reviews and guest posts make for dull reading. Despite my expansive reading list, it's not often that I read on. All of my old blogging friends have moved on, their original blogs abandoned, much like my own, but not quite forgotten.

There is one friend who remains with me, a friend who was there from the beginning.Her blog is the only one that I read without fail, and she is the sole reader of mine. And if her eyes are the only ones that read these words of mine, then I couldn't be more glad. If I don't blog for myself, then I blog for her.

Walk Out to Winter

"It's cold enough for snow," I heard a woman utter as we walked home from church earlier that day. The snow hasn't come yet. I wonder when it will. I don't relish the prospect of driving in it, but that doesn't lessen the excitement I feel at the thought of a proper snowfall soon.

We walk out to winter, treading grit into the pavement with each footstep. Moth grinds it beneath his feet, sliding with every step. He is unnerved by the thin sheet of ice that has formed across the surface of the puddles. He wasn't expecting them to break when he jumped in them. 

I woke one night to a commotion outside my bedroom window, and looked out to see festive lights had been fastened to the lamposts. Shortly afterwards, a huge Christmas tree took centre stage in the community garden, much to the delight of the children. Next weekend we will serenade the streets with carols and watch the neighbourhood glow with festive illuminations.

Suddenly

It takes only an eight letter word to signify the rapid decline of a situation. We saw her just a month ago, on our return visit, and she seemed the picture of health. I didn't think for a moment that it would be the last time I would see her. 

Perhaps that's why yesterday's news came as such a shock, even though we heard, just over a week before, that she had received an unexpected diagnosis, the severity of which had not been established at the time. 

No further news came to us until yesterday. I was halfway through writing her a letter, one that I was confident there would be time to finish later, and maybe others still. That letter will never be sent now.  

The geographical distance makes it hard to take in her absence. Her face, with its radiant smile, surrounded by a wave of frizzy grey hair, comes to mind so easily, an image that I fear will be more difficult to summon with the passage of time. 

We only knew her for five years, but we saw her at least once a week in that period. Being part of a small church congregation was like having an extended family, and she was like a favourite aunt. She came to mean a lot to us.

As worship leaders, we would sometimes arrange services together. I remember fondly the autumn afternoons spent in her kitchen, helping to clean up bric-a-brac for the church bazaar. And several of us joining together in her sitting room for afternoon fellowship.

The last time I saw her, she was standing in the doorway with her husband, waving us off after our visit. That was only a month ago. 

And suddenly, she went away from us. 

I take comfort in my faith that I will see her again. But that doesn't lessen the sense of loss I feel now.

A Bit of a Guddle

We are living in a cave. I try to see past the primitive walls of crumbling plaster, but all I see is the plaster dust that coats our clothes whenever we get too close. The normal daily mess of a young family is less agreeable when accompanied by the extreme chaos of a home under construction. It's hard to find anything when nothing has its place.

And still we are tearing down the walls, loosening the plaster and raising the dust to accommodate sheets of thermaline. We are draining the system and replacing the radiators, the cold spurring us on in our endeavours. Someday soon the walls will be coated with new plaster and paint, and the bare boards hidden beneath new carpets. 

A lady from church summarised our situation perfectly when she commented that we're in a bit of a "guddle". After taking in the blank expressions on our faces she kindly explained that guddle is a Scottish phrase for mess!

Currently our house is at its worse, but in the coming weeks we'll watch our home emerge. 

I've Met Someone

That is to say I've made my first friend. I didn't expect it to happen so soon. Last time it took a lot longer. 

I met her on the nursery run. It started with the usual hellos. But then one day we walked home together, Moth hand in hand with her beautiful dark haired daughter. 

And we found we had a lot in common. When I told her about my first move from the Westcountry to the East coast, she told me a relative of hers did the same move but in reverse. She, too, has lived in different parts, and only recently arrived to the village.

Last weekend we joined her family and friends for a small gathering on Guy Fawkes Night. I brought homemade pumpkin pie and her husband set off fireworks in the garden.

Perhaps to some this seems a small and insignificant thing, but to me it's worth recording. It's good to have found a friend. 

Space to Breathe

I don't have to go far these days to find fields and open spaces. I can see them from the upstairs window, abundantly green and beckoning. Beautiful views are to be found just around the corner, or down the road. There's always somewhere to walk when escape is needed. I am writing again because the inspiration is all around me, no longer drowned out by an urban landscape,

Local traffic passes our front window, but at less of a frequency than it did before; the by-pass diverts the rest. At the back of the house we could be anywhere. 

Our home has a long way to go, but as I take in the beautiful mess before me I see the potential. I close my eyes and see the home we're going to make it into. By the end of the month, the asbestos will be gone and the bare walls will lie in wait of our vision. 

Here is my haven. I've finally found the space to breathe. I love this place. 

First Visitors

They arrived eighteen days after we did, and on their departure, they had been with us for a third of the time that we had ourselves lived there. 

I wasn't sure that I was ready for a ten day visit from my in-laws, but they were doing us a favour after all, by bringing up our second car. 

And for all the chaos of our newly moved state, it was pleasant spending time with them. In ten days we made memories that could not be made over a cup of tea, once or twice a month. We were able to explore and share a whole new world together, and watch the children bonding with their grandparents and uncles. 

And such a joy it was to behold the care and attention of Moth and Ever's youngest uncle, and in return their delight in him. As the time progressed I saw the youngest uncle lay aside his electronic device more frequently, and instead lose himself in the games of his nephew and niece, just seven and nine years his junior. Moth would call for him, searching the house for his new playmate, and it was his hand that he sought when we were out for the day. 

But as enjoyable as the time was, their departure came with a sense of relief. My in-laws have a tendency to fill up the space around them, something that my claustrophobic self has found difficult over the years. I often find myself closing up in their presence, making myself smaller in order to accommodate them better. That evening Sewel and I basked in the stillness again, thankful for the memories but equally grateful for the calm and space that followed. 

Being on the Other Side

It's a strange state of being, when you've been anticipating something for a long time, and you finally emerge on the other side. I am overcome by a sense of euphoria and also disbelief. For many months I have tried to envisage aspects of our new life here. Waking up in our home. Village life. The first day in my new work place. 

It still hasn't quite sunk in, even a month on. I almost expect to open my eyes and find myself back in the midst of transition, with half-packed boxes and chaos strewn across the room. It's been like this with any big change in my life. I remember my pregnancy with each of my children, nine months of wondering who I was carrying inside me, what they'd be like, and afterwards, not quite believing they were really here. And meeting Sewel for the first time after a year of talking online. That didn't seem real either.

One day reality will catch up with me, and I won't think about it any more. But for now, strange as it feels, it's also pretty wonderful to be here at last. On the other side.

The Hardest Part

It wasn't the decision to put everything in motion, or the lengths we went to in preparing our house to go on the market. Although I remember well the challenge of condensing down our belongings, and the long, late nights spent, towards the end, filling cracks, painting, rearranging rooms to bring out their best. 

Nor was it the long weeks on the market. The offers that were made just four days in, only to come to nothing. The positive viewings, and the time we spent hoping in vain for a genuine offer. The barren weeks that followed Easter, where the viewings themselves seemed to become a rarity.

Even the packing and the move itself did not quite compare, although the last few days were frantic and adrenaline-driven. Working to tight deadlines. Little sleep to be had. A long journey northwards, following a full day of physical labour. We drove into the night, knowing the end was near.

The hardest part, although not by a long shot, was saying goodbye. Not so much to the place that's been our home for the last five years, but to the friendships forged there. Work colleagues. Families we've known through baby classes and toddler groups. And, most painfully, a church where we've found so much love and acceptance. Whenever anyone said how much they would miss us I felt such a surge of guilt, humility and poignancy. It was immense.

Although not especially sad to move on, I found myself leaving a piece of myself behind. A piece I can live without, but a small part of me nevertheless. It belongs now to the people who cared about us, the people who will stay in touch and hold on to the memories we've shared together. It will be with them for as long as they remember. Just as the piece I hold of them will stay with me until I forget.

Life at Sea

 

Our vessel is 20 foot long and moors just around the corner from us with others of her kind. At full capacity she holds about half the contents of our home. 

It feels as though we've been at sea since January, when we first started loading her up with our possessions, by the box-load. But the real voyage is still to come, with journey's end in sight, just three weeks away. 

For a long time we've ridden the tides of uncertainty, navigating the seas of limbo and waiting. Now our course is set and this is the homeward stretch, although I know the most challenging part of the journey is yet to come. 

Soon we will empty our vessel and she will contain someone else's belongings. It will take a far bigger vessel to transport our whole life northwards. 

Change of Scene

It's not really a holiday when you've got a young family in tow, but a week away, a change of scene. Where holidays are concerned some level of relaxation is expected, a little more sleep, and some relief from the grind of work and everyday life.  

But then again, a holiday presents the opportunity to explore somewhere new, have different experiences, and see things you've wanted to see for a long time...

And things you never expected to see. 

It's the chance to have an adventure with the people you love the most, and ultimately, when you look back these are the things you'll remember. 

Not the oppressive heat and humidity, the hours spent each night trying to settle restless children, nor their agonising wake up call by six each morning. Not even your camera bouncing down a flight of ancient steps.

But Moth's excitement as he climbed to the top of the castle tower (twice), and Ever's determination to walk forever. Those moments of tranquility and elation, brief, yet profound when Sewel and I chose to embrace them. 

And of course, there is the relief to be back home again, even though it won't be home for much longer. 

Soon

It came to me as a whisper, one morning at work while I was praying silently. A single word, but one that brought so much calm and comfort, quietening the tumult of emotion that had threatening to overwhelm me. 

This came shortly after the flawless rainbow that arched over us one evening as we were driving home. The rainbow of God's promise. 

For so long we had been pursuing a dream, but following a long period of activity, we had reached a stage of transition and waiting, a time of hope and disappointment in quick succession. Waiting has never been a strong point of mine, especially in situations that lie beyond my control. 

I went about my daily activities and tried not to dream too much. I didn't dare to envisage a new life ahead, because I knew it could so easily be someone else's life and not mine. I refrained from furnishing our desired home in my head because tomorrow it could have been claimed by someone else. 

Instead, I pictured it as it was last September, when we saw it, those empty rooms I so long to fill with our life, our life that is currently decanted into boxes shared between a shipping container and the discreet little nooks in our current place. The place I've never quite thought of as home. 

That morning I was given a time-scale of sorts. Though non-specific, I knew that the days of waiting, hoping, praying were numbered, and that an outcome would shortly be fulfilled. 

You may note that I write this in the past tense.  

The wisest words are whispered.